The Weak-Eyed Bat

“In a sane person much of the body’s energy is taken up by the inhibitory processes. The sane man hesitates, ponders, makes a decision, and perhaps changes it. His whole being is not behind the deeds he does. If a man goes swimming immediately after eating the conviction that he should have waited for half an hour will tug at him, will help to dissipate the energy that would ordinarily be going into his stroke. But to the manic tearing at his clothes, what he is doing is right, is the only thing to do, in fact. No inhibitions are dissipating his strength. He becomes, temporarily, a physical superman.”

The room suddenly lit up as if a sun had fallen through the roof. The thunder tore the air and left a hole of silence.

In the next cottage Mary Little raised her head from the pillow and cried: “Jennie! Wake up, Jennie! Something’s been hit!”

Jennie opened her eyes and mumbled a reply. Her head was sunk on her breast.

“Go downstairs and get Tom. I’m nervous. Wake up, Jennie!”

Jennie got up and tottered into the hall, yawning. She came back in a minute, fully awake now and frightened.

“Mr. Little isn’t here,” she cried.

“He must be here! He couldn’t be out in this storm.” Mary reached for her water glass. “He must be here.” Her fingers were shaking and the water dribbled down her chin and the glass fell from her hands.

The army of clouds scattered across the sky in retreat, their ammunition spent. At midnight a star appeared, impaled on a sliver of moon, and still Tom Little did not come home.

Chapter Ten

At ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, August the third, a young woman in Toronto was telephoning a wireless message to Dr. Prescott, Clayton, Muskoka.

Regarding jute bag and contents. Bag contains numerous bloodstains type AB and several pieces of skin from scalp. Rocks similarly stained. Adhering to bag many small hairs, ash blonde and curly. Fibers indicate bag soaked from twelve to twenty hours. Letter follows.

Rushmore, Connaught Laboratory.

In Flint, Michigan, the chief of police was composing a telegram to Inspector White.

John Wayne Smith, owner of two independent drugstores. No police record in Michigan but am investigating. Married a year ago and divorced in Florida shortly afterward. Ex-wife’s address unknown. Smith reputed well off and of excellent character. Left Flint last January ostensibly to travel.

Dr. Hartford, superintendent of the Mercy Sanctuary in Chicago, replaced in the files the case history he had been studying, read once more the telegram from Dr. Prye, and took up a pen.

Marion Allen released seven years ago after six months’ observation period. Present whereabouts unknown. Immediately after entrance her symptoms obviously faked. Would have been released sooner if she had not engineered an escape by injuring an attendant and stealing his keys. Allen clearly a conspiratorial type. Her history filled with babblings but gives us no information regarding her family and personal life. I.Q. listed as 96 but she was uncooperative and I would add twenty at least. Have a good multiple-personality case I'd like you to see. Drop in when you can.

Hartford, Superintendent.

Dr. Hartford could afford to be more verbose than the others. He added “Collect” at the bottom of the telegram form.

In cottage number four Susan Frost was packing a picnic basket. Not, of course, for a picnic, with Joan barely cold in her grave. Susan liked to think of Joan in a quiet coffin, looking serene and saved, rather than on the autopsy table in Dr. Prescott’s office.

The wild-strawberry jam, the calves’ foot jelly, and the invalid soup were going to Mary Little. The whole community knew that Tom had run away and that poor Mary was very ill. Susan hummed a little song, whisked a snowy napkin over the basket, and went out.